Savages is a feisty record that returns to the familiar blend of hardcore, thrash and groove metal.

It still shows signs of the snotty punk remnants that Nevermind had buffed from its paintwork. And yet here it is, neatly repackaged and served up with memorabilia shots in a bid to get us on board once more.

These 17 discs comprise every Island studio album, each with generous extras, plus standalone discs of genuine historical worth.

Kicking off with I Am Dust, it hangs together marvellously as an album.

A fine addition to a weighty catalogue already packed with duets.

It sounds like a lost album that should have come out after 1979’s I Am: a very shrewd approximation of the EWF we know and love, it’s crammed with sophisticated R&B, gossamer-light jazz and powerful, soulful vocals with a positive message.

While his guitar-playing remains robust and his vocal range undiminished, it’s the characteristically immersed, impassioned songwriting that most vividly illustrates his ongoing vigour.

It’s successful, on the whole, and fans of this ever-refreshing Britpop behemoth will find plenty to cheer.

Yes, It’s True starts out along a rather pedestrian path of nod-along rock-by-numbers.

Thankfully, the three-part harmonies and irresistible melodies that lit up the debut remain ever present, exemplified here on both Memoirs Of Grey and Sweet Salvation.

This reissue’s seven bonus tracks will excite completists and include Waco, initially slated for inclusion on the album’s 2002 release before being given away online. But, in truth, the original album’s heartfelt, immediate and tape-hissing guitars and cutely executed melodies excite the most.

It’s edgy, but civil, and it looks like the war will rage on for the time being at least, regardless of the outcome of each emotional battle.

Moore’s Nashville-based father Bob played bass for everyone from Dylan and Elvis to Sammy Davis Jr and Quincy Jones, and his influence is clear; all of pop music is here.

All this is a must-have for fans, and a relatively inexpensive way of accessing an erratic but always intriguing body of work.

Recorded last year at Bestival on the Isle Of Wight, the band are as tight as ever; they’re clearly having a ball.

All very highbrow and ambitious for sure, yet despite portentous advance warnings of material involving fallen angels, the Garden Of Eden and Dante-ish visions of Hell, songs such as the plaintive Morningstar and the Buddy Holly-aping rattle of Letting Me Out quickly prove Hart’s still more than capable of channelling his lofty ideals through good ol’ verse-chorus-verse.

[Heroes is] an immediately striking highlight of the album but, in all truth, most of the remaining 10 songs are up there with his very best.

New versions of Wichita Lineman and Gentle On My Mind are sparser than the originals, if no less affecting, but pale in comparison to the impossibly tender reading of By The Time I Get To Phoenix.

At its weakest, Sleeper can come across like Beady Eye--and if there weren’t a US voice behind it, it might well be laughed out of town. However, Segall’s motives seem authentic.

[Superchunk] crafted an album of effervescent ebullience, fusing joy and sadness with a skill that built on their two decades of existence.

Largely, Right Thoughts is business as usual--a steady, reliable and often invigorating business, but one that constantly, frustratingly hints that it’s capable of more.

It’s not all doom and gloom--though it is mostly chopped-and-twisted electro paranoia.

Feels Like A New Morning is an apt title, because verve and a freshly recovered confidence seep from the Blow Monkeys’ eighth studio set.

“The past is a foreign country,” sings a defiant Peters on the reliably impassioned opener In A Broken Promise Land, while both the ensuing title track and the chest-beating Return are powered by the sort of Ben Nevis-sized, heartstring-tugging Celtic guitar figures that made The Crossing such a compelling debut. It does, admittedly, fall short elsewhere.

All Fired Up, though, is a touch too generic to have Young and his new cohorts making too many changes to the live setlist.

The result is a bizarre, dark album that slowly builds and improves with extending listening.

The Other Life checks in at the expected redneck haunts, but with the lyrical verve of writers from further afield.

Fun, the track which is most obviously Booker T, is ordinary, and Feel Good is so-so; Can’t Wait, despite Estelle’s distinctive vocal, suffers from gimmickry and is the track with the least of Mr Jones on it.... The rest of the album, in which the veteran meets current talent, is mostly great.